It's about time.
Major League Baseball is losing fans by the minute.
Every second could mean years.
The later, the greater the loss.
The American Pastime, the only major sport without a clock, will find it's time is up sooner than social security.
Yes. It's time to shorten the game to seven innings.
Forget the records; the don't mean anything now, and certainly won't mean anything the further down the national depth chart it plummets.
Yet, the answer has been in front of us for decades, but nobody seems to have found the courage to put their name on the back of the idea.
Well one guy did--an unnamed baseball exec anonymously sharing his idea with ESPN's Buster Olney. And good thing, too; the Flat Hardball Society was ready with 34" Louisville Sluggers for shots heard 'round the baseball world.
Perhaps they'd be the cast in the same white cloak as those who preferred baseball segregated before Jackie Robinson and Branch Rickey changed everything.
Unfortunately, they didn't change anyone's attitudes toward the records. Oh no. That honor was stolen by Jose Canseco.
For decades, Babe Ruth was the Home Run King, until a man walked through a door only Mr. Robinson could open and took his crown. And many privileged to pay to see the Bambino fought the idea of Henry Aaron passing Ruth just like the Boston Red Sox ignored the game's changing color guard.
Ruth. Cobb. DiMaggio. Cy. Wagner. Wilson. Foxx. Gehrig. Yet few second thoughts to names like Cool Papa, Paige or Gibson.
No, not the guy with the limp. The guy with the gift.
Maybe it was Ruth who was blessed with a present of segregation. Instead of Ruthian feats, the term Gibsonian would have earned marquee status in generations of newspaper columns.
But we'll never know. Even the Negro League records are met with unfair but traditional qualifying mechanisms that snuff any attempt at legitimate debate.
In other words, the hallowed records were hollow long before the needle and the damage done.
Roids. Race. Baseball has no place other than our hearts anymore. But the pastime will fail to be passed onto the next generation who can't stay up past bedtime to watch over three-hours of ball in a Moneyball era of high counts and team-owned networks vying for primetime every time.
It's time. In fact, it's well past time.
And like so many mistakes of baseball's past, the answer is more obvious than the idea of race funneling players into different leagues.
Little League plays six inning games. High School plays seven, as do college baseball and minor league clubs on double-days.
Pro boxing even shaved their heavyweight fights from 15 rounds to a dozen. Now, 12 is the norm and generations after X have no idea matches went another nine minutes--or for perspective, a fifth quarter.
Sure, this writer will get hate mail. But unlike Hank Aaron's, this will be returned with condescension.
In 20 years, nobody will be laughing when your kid doesn't call you during a Game Seven while your grandkids sleep without dreams of a Red Sox October or a 30th piece of pinstriped hardware.
You'll be watching by yourself on some fledgling cable sports network wondering why your kid doesn't feel the same about the game.
Only one American sport holds the distinction of "The Game." The NFL may now be king, but will never have baseball's records (which the rest of you still believe exist), curses or lore.
And part of The Game's storied history of streaks and series is the adage of "momentum (being) only as good as tomorrow's starting pitcher."
The Game of Tomorrow is only as strong as its next generation.
And if you're already tired of how long a game takes in 2014, imagine what your kid thinks at 14.
Wednesday, May 28, 2014
Friday, May 23, 2014
Cuban Bristle Crisis
The week has been pretty exciting huh?
No matter which part of the country you're from, there's something steaming up the windows--and it ain't the kind of sum'n-sum'n you enjoyed in that black, '86 Lincoln Continental you borrowed from your parents on prom night.
Believe it or not, this stain would be too embarrassing even for ServPro.
Race. Let's talk about it.
Nah. Nevermind, we can't.
If we can't say anything nice, we can't say anything at all. It's easier fogging our glasshouses into gas houses than actually opening the windows to fresh air to speak candidly with our neighbors.
Just because good fences make good neighbors doesn't mean you shouldn't peek through the knothole once in awhile, even if you get your eye poked.
But poking hurts. And nobody likes pain, even temporarily.
Which is why a real discussion will never happen. Just ask Mark Cuban's latest sacrifice at the Altar of Fear. (WATCH)
The multi-billionaire owner of the Dallas Mavericks imitated a sketch from Chappelle's Show: "When Keeping It Real Goes Wrong."
Cuban's thoughts are the same thoughts this writer and millions upon millions of white Americans have thought. Often.
Instead of praise for his honesty, many derided him for his remarks, using words like "ignorant" to describe the entrepreneur's candor.
Hey, what's that old saying about three of the five fingers on your hand?
(No, not the joke from the Rick James-Charlie Murphy Chappelle sketches. The one your mother and teachers recited when you 'cuzed somebody of sum'n.)
Instead ex-NBA "star" and ESPN spoon-feeder, Bruce Bowen, sounded more like Louis Farrakan than he even looked, criticizing the owner and even casting stereotypes himself, missing the entire point of Cuban's comments.
However, Pittsburgh Steelers defensive back, Ryan Clark--also on the dais--actually supported Cuban. Perhaps football players are smarter than hoopsters.
(Can we say that?)
Can we ask that???
Doesn't matter. There are too many Bowens out there to make a difference and not enough Cubans and Clarks. Too many Bowens to scare off the Cubans. Too many Bowens intimidating those who think like Cuban to come to grips with the idea that YES AMERICANS, WE ARE INDEED PREJUDICED, so they can continue to hide behind the white clothesline of guilt and throw stones in support of guys like Bruce All-Righty rather than break the glass and admit they have a problem.
You may know these Bowens by other names. Like Sharpton. Or Jackson. Or they may be your grandparents who shared stories of neighbors' spousal abuse and recall how they did nothing because "back then, you kept your mouth shut."
Maybe because back then your grandparents had their own issues and didn't want help either. Yeah, it's much easier that way, isn't it?
Instead of honest racial dialogue on a platform that most of America enjoys (and more importantly, understands--sports) we get brought back into the house by an overzealous plurality who preys on the fears and threats of the majority simply because all it takes is one.
One pissed-off black dude. And a few white guys to support him to prove they're not racists.
In America, the dirtiest word is the N-word. No doubt. No excuse. It is.
The second dirtiest word is the R-word.
Though, those trying to read this through the fog of steam brimming from their bathrooms might think it's the "other" R-word. Maybe it is. But we'll never find the truth, which is what Cuban tried to convey. We'll just get force-fed a line-of-thinking from an angry mob.
We'll never get anywhere dealing with race in America. We'll just keep telling ourselves that having a black President and pulling the plug on an octogenarian owner living in the 1800's will put the issue away for awhile like your grandparents' neighbors, or that credit card balance recurring like the Ghost of Christmas(es) Past.
Keep steaming up the glass, Americans. Like the Amish, you're too used to the stench to acknowledge it doesn't smell too good here.
(Can I say that?)
No matter which part of the country you're from, there's something steaming up the windows--and it ain't the kind of sum'n-sum'n you enjoyed in that black, '86 Lincoln Continental you borrowed from your parents on prom night.
Believe it or not, this stain would be too embarrassing even for ServPro.
Race. Let's talk about it.
Nah. Nevermind, we can't.
If we can't say anything nice, we can't say anything at all. It's easier fogging our glasshouses into gas houses than actually opening the windows to fresh air to speak candidly with our neighbors.
Just because good fences make good neighbors doesn't mean you shouldn't peek through the knothole once in awhile, even if you get your eye poked.
But poking hurts. And nobody likes pain, even temporarily.
Which is why a real discussion will never happen. Just ask Mark Cuban's latest sacrifice at the Altar of Fear. (WATCH)
The multi-billionaire owner of the Dallas Mavericks imitated a sketch from Chappelle's Show: "When Keeping It Real Goes Wrong."
Cuban's thoughts are the same thoughts this writer and millions upon millions of white Americans have thought. Often.
Instead of praise for his honesty, many derided him for his remarks, using words like "ignorant" to describe the entrepreneur's candor.
Hey, what's that old saying about three of the five fingers on your hand?
(No, not the joke from the Rick James-Charlie Murphy Chappelle sketches. The one your mother and teachers recited when you 'cuzed somebody of sum'n.)
Instead ex-NBA "star" and ESPN spoon-feeder, Bruce Bowen, sounded more like Louis Farrakan than he even looked, criticizing the owner and even casting stereotypes himself, missing the entire point of Cuban's comments.
However, Pittsburgh Steelers defensive back, Ryan Clark--also on the dais--actually supported Cuban. Perhaps football players are smarter than hoopsters.
(Can we say that?)
Can we ask that???
Doesn't matter. There are too many Bowens out there to make a difference and not enough Cubans and Clarks. Too many Bowens to scare off the Cubans. Too many Bowens intimidating those who think like Cuban to come to grips with the idea that YES AMERICANS, WE ARE INDEED PREJUDICED, so they can continue to hide behind the white clothesline of guilt and throw stones in support of guys like Bruce All-Righty rather than break the glass and admit they have a problem.
You may know these Bowens by other names. Like Sharpton. Or Jackson. Or they may be your grandparents who shared stories of neighbors' spousal abuse and recall how they did nothing because "back then, you kept your mouth shut."
Maybe because back then your grandparents had their own issues and didn't want help either. Yeah, it's much easier that way, isn't it?
Instead of honest racial dialogue on a platform that most of America enjoys (and more importantly, understands--sports) we get brought back into the house by an overzealous plurality who preys on the fears and threats of the majority simply because all it takes is one.
One pissed-off black dude. And a few white guys to support him to prove they're not racists.
In America, the dirtiest word is the N-word. No doubt. No excuse. It is.
The second dirtiest word is the R-word.
Though, those trying to read this through the fog of steam brimming from their bathrooms might think it's the "other" R-word. Maybe it is. But we'll never find the truth, which is what Cuban tried to convey. We'll just get force-fed a line-of-thinking from an angry mob.
We'll never get anywhere dealing with race in America. We'll just keep telling ourselves that having a black President and pulling the plug on an octogenarian owner living in the 1800's will put the issue away for awhile like your grandparents' neighbors, or that credit card balance recurring like the Ghost of Christmas(es) Past.
Keep steaming up the glass, Americans. Like the Amish, you're too used to the stench to acknowledge it doesn't smell too good here.
(Can I say that?)
Saturday, May 17, 2014
Court Reform
The NBA needs to fix itself.
Donald Sterling has nothing to do with this, though it's clear while his pacemaker can't seem to govern the well of hate spewing from the old geezer's geyser, sounding more and more like an offspring of Livia Soprano and the Grand Wizard. And Adam Silver aced the first exam in his short tenure as league leader, a test even his predecessor never dreamed he'd have to take.
Phil Jackson's first loss as the New York Knicks' Zenmaster should remind him to keep centered as he searches for Steve Kerr's replacement as head coach. Perhaps the guy Kerr replaces, Mark Jackson, will step into the Triangle long enough to buy his new boss enough time to replace HIM. Maybe with himself? NBA fans would LOVE to see if Jackson has enough Buddha beads to do this, let alone pace the sideline at Madison Square Garden. Either way, the off-Broadway drama is good for the Association.
The damage isn't the sideshow. The NBA is always full of enough reality TV for a second network. Heck, some players' wives and exes are cashing on shows of their own.
The problem? You called it.
If you predicted a final four featuring Miami, Indiana, San Antone' and OKC, it shows the league didn't change much from 2013. Hacks always go with the proverbial chalk the way novices pick the Kentucky Derby winner at The Preakness. Memphis beating Oklahoma City last year was a fluke and most know with Kevin Durant ranked as the NBA's consensus No. 2, there was little chance Thunder would strike twice against the 2014 MVP, even with Russell Westbrook pretending he's Kobe Bryant.
Pro basketball is pretty predictable. Even a case for the Los Angeles Clippers making the NBA Finals isn't considered a stretch. The NBA's salary cap, limited coaching, and drawn-out playoff series drag the league down a wasteland of two rounds of six and seven-game series where even fans of upset-winners from the first round know they'll be swallowing their Mylanta in gulps by the second. And even those who think they have a chance are at the mercy of needing one upset victory to change the series, which is washed away as soon as the better team returns the insult.
Occasionally, one team will suprise everyone, like the 2013 Grizzlies, for a little while, before getting put to bed by either the Spurs or El Heat. But if you're a casual fan waiting for the 1999 St. Louis Rams or the 2003 Florida Marlins, the NBA is not the league for you. And sadly, the best place to cultivate new fans would be college hoops, where teams like Connecticut, Wichita State or Butler routinely shock the experts. And the one-and-done rule hardly garners enough carryover from those who use college ball to stump their "Love of the Game" arguments.
Want help?
Cut the number of playoff teams from 16 to eight. Incentify fans and teams to try to win home court advantage and actually make each game worth watching instead of YouTubing highlights or waiting for May to actually watch. Of course, revenue stands in the way of the CBA allowing this. Well, extend your season by two or three weeks. And, for more drama, take a page from Major League Baseball and have a pair of play-in games--one for each conference.
Second, remove the teeth from the salary cap the way Doc Rivers & Co. may want to knock Donald Sterling's dentures from it's Super Poligrip. The Association is built on stars, but if they remain put, other franchises could take years and several coaches to recover. They'll improve slowly, but they'll never offer that thrill of a worst-to-first catapult that captivates even fringe fans.
And finally, do what the NFL has done and make players wait three years before declaring for the draft. College players who create buzz in March are often forgotten by June after the lottery picks are snatched-up. If the best instruction is in college--and it is; they HAVE to listen--then wouldn't the league do better with well-seasoned players bringing something besides raw talent and hood ornament-sized chips on their shoulders?
The NBA isn't great. Yes, it's just the best basketball in the world, but we don't know any better because we've never seen anything better. What if Adam Silver decided to use imagination? David Stern didn't make the league better; the players did. Remember, Stern-O! was the guy who faught the Dream Team assembling back in 1992 and reaps the rewards of the profit and globalization of his product as if he coached Jordan, Magic and Bird to the gold medal.
Orlando Magic fans and the faithful of the Boston Celtics still imagine the courses their respective franchises would have taken had either signed Tim Duncan when they had the chance. Now imagine a professional basketball league where that not only would be possible, but become the norm for generations to come. College players with two or three years of experience and discipline bringing their respective followings to the pros, resurrecting once great franchises with the opportunities to go from worst-to-first, making writers eat their playoff picks by All-Star weekend.
Nah. You'll only get that in the NFL. Maybe that's why they can overcome concussions, murder trials, spousal abuse and PED use as if it never happens, while the NBA still hangs it's banner on LeBron, hoping he never goes the way of Derrick Rose.
Because if that ever happens, there will be no Silver lining to that problem, the way the new commish magically whisked away Donald Sterling.
Pro basketball is pretty predictable. Even a case for the Los Angeles Clippers making the NBA Finals isn't considered a stretch. The NBA's salary cap, limited coaching, and drawn-out playoff series drag the league down a wasteland of two rounds of six and seven-game series where even fans of upset-winners from the first round know they'll be swallowing their Mylanta in gulps by the second. And even those who think they have a chance are at the mercy of needing one upset victory to change the series, which is washed away as soon as the better team returns the insult.
Occasionally, one team will suprise everyone, like the 2013 Grizzlies, for a little while, before getting put to bed by either the Spurs or El Heat. But if you're a casual fan waiting for the 1999 St. Louis Rams or the 2003 Florida Marlins, the NBA is not the league for you. And sadly, the best place to cultivate new fans would be college hoops, where teams like Connecticut, Wichita State or Butler routinely shock the experts. And the one-and-done rule hardly garners enough carryover from those who use college ball to stump their "Love of the Game" arguments.
Want help?
Cut the number of playoff teams from 16 to eight. Incentify fans and teams to try to win home court advantage and actually make each game worth watching instead of YouTubing highlights or waiting for May to actually watch. Of course, revenue stands in the way of the CBA allowing this. Well, extend your season by two or three weeks. And, for more drama, take a page from Major League Baseball and have a pair of play-in games--one for each conference.
Second, remove the teeth from the salary cap the way Doc Rivers & Co. may want to knock Donald Sterling's dentures from it's Super Poligrip. The Association is built on stars, but if they remain put, other franchises could take years and several coaches to recover. They'll improve slowly, but they'll never offer that thrill of a worst-to-first catapult that captivates even fringe fans.
And finally, do what the NFL has done and make players wait three years before declaring for the draft. College players who create buzz in March are often forgotten by June after the lottery picks are snatched-up. If the best instruction is in college--and it is; they HAVE to listen--then wouldn't the league do better with well-seasoned players bringing something besides raw talent and hood ornament-sized chips on their shoulders?
The NBA isn't great. Yes, it's just the best basketball in the world, but we don't know any better because we've never seen anything better. What if Adam Silver decided to use imagination? David Stern didn't make the league better; the players did. Remember, Stern-O! was the guy who faught the Dream Team assembling back in 1992 and reaps the rewards of the profit and globalization of his product as if he coached Jordan, Magic and Bird to the gold medal.
Orlando Magic fans and the faithful of the Boston Celtics still imagine the courses their respective franchises would have taken had either signed Tim Duncan when they had the chance. Now imagine a professional basketball league where that not only would be possible, but become the norm for generations to come. College players with two or three years of experience and discipline bringing their respective followings to the pros, resurrecting once great franchises with the opportunities to go from worst-to-first, making writers eat their playoff picks by All-Star weekend.
Nah. You'll only get that in the NFL. Maybe that's why they can overcome concussions, murder trials, spousal abuse and PED use as if it never happens, while the NBA still hangs it's banner on LeBron, hoping he never goes the way of Derrick Rose.
Because if that ever happens, there will be no Silver lining to that problem, the way the new commish magically whisked away Donald Sterling.
Monday, May 12, 2014
Sam Story
The games aren't the story.
The NBA playoffs are formulaic. Home teams gobble the majority of the victories, trading only momentum disguised as stories about how the losing team will respond rather than the winner outplaying the loser. WARNING: this trend will continue until the talent portion of the competition--the Miami Heat.
Then there's hockey. Yeah, nobody outside Canada, Boston or Pittsburgh really cares about the Stanley Cup, except Buffalo, where hope is always a dream away. Heck, the Subway Series and CC Sabathia's knee are bigger stories in the Big Apple than the New York Rangers. And if it weren't for the sudden death of Martin St. Louis' mother and his Mothers Day performance, SportsCenter would have found ANYTHING else to kill time instead of hockey.
Like Michael Sam.
ESPN and NFL Network were both there to exploit that tender moment. Usually cameras don't go inside the homes of players taken after the third round. But the America's reaction justified it, followed by 48 hours worth of content and leads for every talk radio show west of the Mothership.
Gay Guy Drafted. Kisses boyfriend. Twitter amok. Players punished for tweeting their disapproval. Yeah, those sensitivity classes will learn 'em.
Such public relations idiocy. And of course, leave it to a Miami Dolphin to set the tone. Defensive back, Don Jones, posted "OMG" and "Horrible."
What'd you expect? Even before Sam was drafted, NFL Network's Rich Eisen and Mike Mayock discussed the possibility of the Missouri grad's sexuality leaving him undrafted, so thinking someone wouldn't tweet his displeasure is like assuming the NFL handed out a "no homophobic tweeting" memo.
The fine, suspension and recant of Don Jones isn't a violation of the First Amendment like a foot-in-mouth site like Deadspin would have you believe. He wasn't arrested. There are consequences for your words in a business, even if it is the NFL. But the Dolphins have already had their share of issues from the Richie Incognito-Jonathan Martin chaos of 2013. The lawyers already had a plan ready to roll-out the first moment someone hit send to offend. He did and they did. And now they've crafted a statement on Jones' behalf that fools no one. Not even Michael Sam.
Speaking of which, Sam was drafted by the St. Louis Rams, a team from the same state the defensive end played his college ball. Conspiracy theorists already think the NFL asked the Rams to draft him if he were still available in the final round as another shield-shining move so the league wouldn't look worse allowing the leading sack artist in college football's toughest conference going undrafted because he's gay. They already handed-out drug suspensions earlier in the weekend--the Browns top WR Josh Gordon (perhaps a year) and the Rams own pass-catcher, Stedman Bailey.
Seven rounds spread over three days could feel like a lifetime for Michael Sam, who is used to carrying more than just pads on his shoulders. By the time the tears fell from the former Tiger's eyes onto the shoulders of his boyfriend, fans had already forgotten Johnny Football falling down the draft tree and hitting every branch coming down--most notably the one Jerry Jones waves in Dallas.
No, the games weren't the story this weekend. The gay guy was. And it'll continue. Perhaps HBO's Hard Knocks will follow the Rams this season by NFL order to assure Sam's story won't end at the end of summer; that he'll make the team and earn the respect of his teammates regardless of whom he loves.
Or, he could just make the team the way he made opposing SEC quarterbacks cringe when he ran them over.
Either way, you now have your Tim Tebow story of the 2014 NFL season. The same way the NY Jets introduced their former backup quarterback during before the Ravens-Niners Super Bowl--an unprecedented move to call a presser for a guy who was never the No. 1 QB on the depth chart playing sports' most scrutinized position--the Rams will introduce their seventh-rounder Tuesday at Rams Park.
Jadeveon Clowney will draw eyes. Johnny Manziel will steal his moments. But Sam will be the subject in the nation's heartland, and the local and national media will be checking the story's pulse until a final decision will be made on the dude from Mizzou.
Trust this writer: Sam will finish 2014 with the Rams. Likely on his merit alone.
But if he can't cut it, he'll still be there.
The NFL, nor do the Rams, want to become another story like Don Jones.
They all, including Sam, would like to keep the stories on the field.
Like Michael Sam.
ESPN and NFL Network were both there to exploit that tender moment. Usually cameras don't go inside the homes of players taken after the third round. But the America's reaction justified it, followed by 48 hours worth of content and leads for every talk radio show west of the Mothership.
Gay Guy Drafted. Kisses boyfriend. Twitter amok. Players punished for tweeting their disapproval. Yeah, those sensitivity classes will learn 'em.
Such public relations idiocy. And of course, leave it to a Miami Dolphin to set the tone. Defensive back, Don Jones, posted "OMG" and "Horrible."
What'd you expect? Even before Sam was drafted, NFL Network's Rich Eisen and Mike Mayock discussed the possibility of the Missouri grad's sexuality leaving him undrafted, so thinking someone wouldn't tweet his displeasure is like assuming the NFL handed out a "no homophobic tweeting" memo.
The fine, suspension and recant of Don Jones isn't a violation of the First Amendment like a foot-in-mouth site like Deadspin would have you believe. He wasn't arrested. There are consequences for your words in a business, even if it is the NFL. But the Dolphins have already had their share of issues from the Richie Incognito-Jonathan Martin chaos of 2013. The lawyers already had a plan ready to roll-out the first moment someone hit send to offend. He did and they did. And now they've crafted a statement on Jones' behalf that fools no one. Not even Michael Sam.
Speaking of which, Sam was drafted by the St. Louis Rams, a team from the same state the defensive end played his college ball. Conspiracy theorists already think the NFL asked the Rams to draft him if he were still available in the final round as another shield-shining move so the league wouldn't look worse allowing the leading sack artist in college football's toughest conference going undrafted because he's gay. They already handed-out drug suspensions earlier in the weekend--the Browns top WR Josh Gordon (perhaps a year) and the Rams own pass-catcher, Stedman Bailey.
Seven rounds spread over three days could feel like a lifetime for Michael Sam, who is used to carrying more than just pads on his shoulders. By the time the tears fell from the former Tiger's eyes onto the shoulders of his boyfriend, fans had already forgotten Johnny Football falling down the draft tree and hitting every branch coming down--most notably the one Jerry Jones waves in Dallas.
No, the games weren't the story this weekend. The gay guy was. And it'll continue. Perhaps HBO's Hard Knocks will follow the Rams this season by NFL order to assure Sam's story won't end at the end of summer; that he'll make the team and earn the respect of his teammates regardless of whom he loves.
Or, he could just make the team the way he made opposing SEC quarterbacks cringe when he ran them over.
Either way, you now have your Tim Tebow story of the 2014 NFL season. The same way the NY Jets introduced their former backup quarterback during before the Ravens-Niners Super Bowl--an unprecedented move to call a presser for a guy who was never the No. 1 QB on the depth chart playing sports' most scrutinized position--the Rams will introduce their seventh-rounder Tuesday at Rams Park.
Jadeveon Clowney will draw eyes. Johnny Manziel will steal his moments. But Sam will be the subject in the nation's heartland, and the local and national media will be checking the story's pulse until a final decision will be made on the dude from Mizzou.
Trust this writer: Sam will finish 2014 with the Rams. Likely on his merit alone.
But if he can't cut it, he'll still be there.
The NFL, nor do the Rams, want to become another story like Don Jones.
They all, including Sam, would like to keep the stories on the field.
Friday, May 9, 2014
Yes. They're Effing Serious.
The Buffalo Bills sent a clear message Friday, one even louder than the splash they made Thursday night.
"We're done with losers."
After an uncharacteristic move by 21st-century Bills standards where they sacrificed next year's first round selection (and a fourth) for arguably the best skill position player in the draft, they jettisoned their goofball wideout who led the team with more laughs, headslaps, headshakes and balls dropped than big time receptions expected of the top pass catcher on the roster.
Stevie Johnson followed in the footsteps of the previous number ones before him:
"We don't really have anyone else here, so, guess you're the guy."
Lee Evans was no Eric Moulds. And Eric Moulds wasn't much without Doug Flutie throwing him the ball, either. Heck, when you openly campaign for the need of particular quarterback like a pitcher needing his own caddy every five days (Moulds/Flutie, Evans/JP Losman, TO/Ryan Fitzpatrick) when there's no established gunslinger, what torch is there to take, let alone pass?
Stevie Johnson was a late rounder from Kentucky, better known for hoops even in the basketball school's leanest years. He was closer to Mr. Irrelevant than graduating to the NFL in an Armani suit, receiving a cap, a jersey with a "1" and a hug from Principal Goodell. Yet, he tripped over the Bills much like guys like Fred Jackson finding their Island of Misfit Toys. And the Bills bumped into him much like finding a future ex-Mrs. Buffalo in the bathcare aisle at Wegmans.
Stevie served his purpose. He also served as a jester. And his antics ranging from dropped game winners and clock stoppers, magic marker tees, showboat penalties and the fact NOBODY under the Marrone March considered him captain material proves, like the fortnight of playoff absences, he no longer belongs here.
Sammy Watkins is now Thee Guy. No more Billssh*t.
Dougs--Whaley and Marrone--have their guy. EJ Manuel has his caddy. And now the Buffalo Bills have their sights set on January. And on their next five picks.
And now that the Bills have shown how serious they are about Sammy and Stevie, it should serve another teammate a reminder:
CJ Spiller, you're on the clock.
"We're done with losers."
After an uncharacteristic move by 21st-century Bills standards where they sacrificed next year's first round selection (and a fourth) for arguably the best skill position player in the draft, they jettisoned their goofball wideout who led the team with more laughs, headslaps, headshakes and balls dropped than big time receptions expected of the top pass catcher on the roster.
Stevie Johnson followed in the footsteps of the previous number ones before him:
"We don't really have anyone else here, so, guess you're the guy."
Lee Evans was no Eric Moulds. And Eric Moulds wasn't much without Doug Flutie throwing him the ball, either. Heck, when you openly campaign for the need of particular quarterback like a pitcher needing his own caddy every five days (Moulds/Flutie, Evans/JP Losman, TO/Ryan Fitzpatrick) when there's no established gunslinger, what torch is there to take, let alone pass?
Stevie Johnson was a late rounder from Kentucky, better known for hoops even in the basketball school's leanest years. He was closer to Mr. Irrelevant than graduating to the NFL in an Armani suit, receiving a cap, a jersey with a "1" and a hug from Principal Goodell. Yet, he tripped over the Bills much like guys like Fred Jackson finding their Island of Misfit Toys. And the Bills bumped into him much like finding a future ex-Mrs. Buffalo in the bathcare aisle at Wegmans.
Stevie served his purpose. He also served as a jester. And his antics ranging from dropped game winners and clock stoppers, magic marker tees, showboat penalties and the fact NOBODY under the Marrone March considered him captain material proves, like the fortnight of playoff absences, he no longer belongs here.
Sammy Watkins is now Thee Guy. No more Billssh*t.
Dougs--Whaley and Marrone--have their guy. EJ Manuel has his caddy. And now the Buffalo Bills have their sights set on January. And on their next five picks.
And now that the Bills have shown how serious they are about Sammy and Stevie, it should serve another teammate a reminder:
CJ Spiller, you're on the clock.
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